


#nofilter

by madame_faust



Series: The Adventures of S. Holmes and J. Watson [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cyberbullying, F/F, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Pre-Relationship, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22958059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: A case of catfishing takes a sinister turn in this modern retelling of 'A Case of Identity.'
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Adventures of S. Holmes and J. Watson [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647874
Comments: 31
Kudos: 28





	1. Fishing

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like Mary Sutherland got done dirty by the narrative and Holmes himself in the original story, so I'm fixing it. #justiceformarysutherland

I received Holmes's text just after my shift at the surgery ended. She promised caffeine in exchange for joining her at an internet cafe. I hadn't known her long, but I was starting to catch on to the fact that a meet-up at a cafe wasn't just going to confine itself to lattes and conversation. Not when one was invited by Sherlock Holmes.

I didn't mind - not at all. Having once joined her in a bit of a casual stakeout, I was more than pleased to have some break up in the monotony of my life. Upon my return from Afghanistan and my release from hospital, my therapist recommended establishing a routine. Her goal was to get me out of the house, to become accustomed to life as a civilian, insert myself into the cycle of work-social life-sleep, punctuated by occasional meals. The intention was to keep me from drifting, from becoming preoccupied with dwelling on my past experiences or my current pain level. Psychologically sound advice, but it turned out routine didn't work for me. What I really needed to feel more myself was a break from the ordinary and that, I was quickly learning, was exactly what Holmes specialised in. 

When I arrived at the cafe, she was already there, tapping away on a laptop. She waved me over with a long, elegant hand and gestured to a coffee cup in front of an empty chair beside her. 

"Perfectly timed, Watson," she said, pausing briefly in her typing to grace me with a brief smile. She really did have the most extraordinary hands; long and thin and tapered at the tips, nails short and blunt. I wondered if she played the piano. The laptop had a privacy screen over the monitor and Holmes had to redirect the screen toward me and tilt it down so that I could see what she was working on. 

It was a dating profile, or rather, a profile picture. The young woman had a delicate face with large brown eyes, thin, arched eyebrows and a small puckered mouth with black hair that fell in waves down her shoulders.

"Is that the girl you reckon's being catfished?" I asked. 

"No, that's me."

It absolutely was not; Holmes's features were hardly what one would call 'delicate'. She had a high forehead, prominent chin, large mouth and a long nose and expressive, but small dark eyes. Not to mention the fact that her hair was cut short above her ears.

"What?" she asked, voice full of good humour. "You don't think it does me justice? Here, look."

She opened a new window and I saw the image again, larger and overlaid with a grid. In the photo editing software it was easier to see the slight pixelation around the eyes and mouth, the warping where she'd lowered the hairline and the fact that the long brown waves she'd added to her own short-cropped hair were blurry and indistinct. 

"Nicely done," I remarked appreciatively. "You ought to give me a go sometime."

"Nonsense," Holmes scoffed, closing the photo editing window and reopening the dating profile site. "One doesn't improve upon perfection. Anyway, look here."

My brain barely had time to register the compliment (if she could see the mess of divots and scars on my right shoulder, she wouldn't have said it anyway), before Holmes switched over to another tab. This time the photograph was of a blonde girl, chubby with old-fashioned cats-eye glasses and streaks of pink and blue in her hair. Clearly it hadn't been touched by Photoshop; her skin was a bit spotty, but she had a large, friendly smile and a quirky sensibility about her.

"Cute," I remarked idly. "That's her, then?"

"Yes," Holmes confirmed. "Mary Sutherland, had an unpleasant let-down with regards to her romantic life and the case was referred to me."

"Bit of a pattern, is it?" I asked, smirking. "Careful, you'll end up an agony aunt."

"It has its points of interest, just as your would-be Spiritualist did," Holmes retorted. "Mary's been in a long-distance relationship with this fellow - " Another tab was opened and a profile picture of a stocky man with curly brown hair, a bushy red beard and a pair of coke-bottle glasses emerged. Beneath the picture was the name 'Hosmer Angel'. "They met online almost a year ago through a mutual interest in an MMORPG they both play. They connected outside the game, but not outside the internet. There was a gaming convention recently at which they were finally to meet and consummate their mutual interest in person. Mary put the hotel room on her credit card and, as she is rather a homebody, took a great emotional risk in venturing out amongst her fellow citizens to attend. Her beloved never turned up."

"Well, that's shite," I sympathised. "But...'Hosmer Angel' sounds like a fake name to me. He was probably having her on, the git."

"Apparently it is his pseudonym on the game they both play - some kind of Edwardian-era tale of a gentleman thief and his criminal network, in the vein of Bunny and Raffles," she explained. "According to Mr. Angel, he got cold feet and suffered a debilitating panic attack before he arrived at the hotel - Mary, being a sufferer of severe social anxiety herself, sympathised and understood. All was forgiven and forgotten. Until..."

Another tab. This time it was a series of emails, copied and pasted into a message sent to Holmes. I scanned them quickly and reared back, appalled; the anonymous sender claimed to be a 'friend of Hosmer's' (indeed, their email handle was onefortheangels@outlook.com) and informed Mary that he was at that gamers' convention after all, but that he was so 'disgusted' by her real life appearance that he couldn't bring himself to talk to her. It went on at length in that vein for a while, describing the costume she'd worn to the convention, how badly it suited her, but I didn't need to read much to get the gist. 

"Nasty business," was all I could bring myself to say. I was peripherally aware of cyberbullying, but luckily the internet had come to my school and neighbourhood too late for myself to fall victim. I endured the old-fashioned kind of having my desk and rucksack gone through, my textbooks torn up with 'lezzie' or something more unsavoury carved in the cover with a dull blade. "But how can you do anything about it? Unless your plan is to catfish the catfisher."

"After a fashion," she admitted. "I have some little additional knowledge of the larger situation - Mary Sutherland is the coworker of someone I know very well, her anxiety is exacerbated by an unhappy home life. She's twenty-five, but still lives at home with her mother and step-father, a situation which does nothing to improve her self-esteem. She has a steady position in government, makes a good income, but they've convinced her she needs more financial security before she gets a place of her own. Her mother also goes in on her over her weight and general appearance."

Another picture came up on the computer, Mary's Facebook page this time. There was Mary in academic dress, presumably graduating from university. On her left, a woman who resembled her very much, except that she was overly tanned and rail-thin wearing a dress intended for someone much younger than she appeared to be. The woman was probably in her early fifties, but her styling aged her. On her right, a man who looked about my age, average height and weight with blonde hair, slicked back like a Bond villain, in a sports coat and hideous tie. 

"Her mother and brother?" I guessed.

"Mother and step-father."

"Oh." There was a lot else I wanted to say, but 'oh,' just about covered it.

Holmes nodded, knowingly. "In answer to your unasked question, the step-father - Jim - is five years Mary's senior. He met Mrs. Sutherland - now Mrs. Windibank - on a cruise where he was bartending. Quite a whirlwind romance; they were married when the ship docked at Naples. Mary was at university, the first time she met was at her graduation which explains her rather pained expression in the photograph. As a point of interest, Jim Windibank is the manager of the hotel where Mary attended the convention."

Jim Windibank's Facebook page was more locked-down than Mary's and the only picture available was his profile. Possibly biased by what I'd been told, I thought he looked like a smug, smarmy little cretin with an extremely punchable face. 

"You think he was the arsehole who sent her the nasty email?" I asked, deciding it was something that a person with a face like that might do. 

"I think he's Hosmer Angel."

I nearly gagged on my latte. "That's _repulsive_. Why would he do that? Play with her like that? And for nearly a year, when he's married to her _mum_."

"Because he's a nasty piece of work," Holmes said, some emotion colouring her tone. Up until now she'd delivered the facts in a calm, detatched manner, like she was reading aloud from a Wikipedia entry. "A low, cold-blooded heartless, as you said, _arsehole_ who makes himself feel better by preying on the insecurities of young women. As for the mother...I wouldn't be surprised if she herself sent the message I showed you. The tone is, evidently, only marginally more abusive than that which constitutes ordinary conversation from Mrs. Windibank to Mary."

I should have been shocked. I was certainly outraged. But it wasn't surprise that flooded by veins at Holmes's supposition, just resigned misery over what cunts human beings could be, one to the other. Especially the ones who brought you into the world and were meant to look after you. 

" _'They fuck you up, your mum and dad,'_ " I muttered bitterly and Holmes cocked her head.

"An astute observation, baldly stated," she replied and managed to get a laugh out of me.

"It's not mine," I said. "Philip Larkin - you know it?" 

Holmes didn't, so I repeated my probably inaccurate memory of the poem: _They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had and add some extra, just for you._

It went on from there; a fairly accurate representation of average family relations, in my experience. And one reason among _many_ that I never wanted kids. Seemed quite a revelatory thing when I read it the first time when I was fourteen. Holmes, at twenty-seven, seemed to be having a similar experience. She went very still and her mouth dropped slightly open. She blinked rapidly a few times, then shut her mouth and went back to focusing on the computer screen.

"Well. That's. Ah. Yes. Very much so. Ah, but do you... _here,_ watch."

Rapidly the fingers of her right hand worked the keys whilst her left was preoccupied with the mouse. She had pulled up the Hosmer Angel photograph and was reverse-engineering it, removing the beard, eliminating the glasses, shaving down the dark, curly hair until it was shorter and lighter. Then she tightened the jawline and thinned out the neck. It wasn't an exact replica of the photograph from Jim Windibank's Facebook profile, but it was a sure match for the face itself. 

"There," she gestured forcefully toward the screen. I could tell she was a bit rattled still and that she'd probably wanted to show off her photo edit with a bit more panache than she'd wound up doing; Holmes had a theatrical streak a mile wide, I was learning. "The work of an hour for a novice, or fifteen minutes for someone with a little experience using the programme; it's easy enough to master, that genetically superior version of myself you saw upon your arrival was achieved after thirty minutes of my faffing about with it."

Again, the picture of Holmes as altered into a doe-eyed, long haired woman with a tiny pert mouth filled the screen. Not liking the tone in her voice, I made a bit of a show of clearing my ears out, "Sorry, I thought I heard you say 'genetically superior' when you must've meant 'generic.' That girl looks like a _Love Island_ contestant, and not a memorable one."

Half the cafe stared; Holmes let out one of her braying, full-throated laughs and I was absolutely tickled I'd prompted it. 

"That is the most _specific_ back-handed compliment!" she exclaimed gleefully. "A not-very-memorable _Love Island_ contestant. Watson, has anyone ever told you that you've got a wonderful way with words?"

'I get all sorts of compliments on the things I can do with my mouth,' I _thought_ , but did not _say_. Holmes and I were scarcely friends and we did live together; no use muddying the relationship because I was a hopeless flirt at the best of times. Instead of replying I grinned at her like a loon, which I'm not sure didn't convey the same sentiment than my innuendo-laden thoughts did. 

"She suited my purposes anyway," Holmes said, closing the window and uploading the profile of 'Hosmer Angel.' "As you can see, the profile itself is three years old - it was begun and maintained before Jim Windibank's marriage to Mary's mother. I thought if I created a profile of a young lady with similar interests to his, that he might attempt to begin an acquaintance."

"Has he?" I asked.

Holmes shook her head, "Not yet, but its only been active a few hours. Already 'Sarah Hughes,' as I've dubbed her, has received some varied interest including some anatomical photographs which might be of professional interest to a urologist, but which hold absolutely no appeal to me whatsoever either personally or professionally."

Thankfully she didn't offer to show me any of those. Holmes closed the laptop with a quiet snap and started putting it away in her rucksack. As she was packing up her things to go, I drained my coffee and she asked, quite casually, if I had additional plans for the night. I replied in the negative and she asked me whether or not I had any objection to reading subtitles.

"There's a French film based on a graphic novel I quite like, _Le bleu est une couleur chaude -"_

" _Blue is the Warmest Colour_?" I asked, surprised. "I've read it, quite a while ago, but I liked it. I didn't realise they made a film of it."

"They have," Holmes confirmed. "I thought, if you didn't have anything to do...there's a showing at eight not too far from here."

Admittedly, I was being a bit dense. When a female acquaintance expresses a revulsion to pictures only a urologist would fancy, then invites you out to see a lesbian drama, well, all signs pointed one way - and this was in addition to being told by said acquaintance that one's face was perfect. But I was still in a bit of a funk. Not quite myself. And not quite up to seeing myself as someone worth pursuing or ready to pursue others. Holmes, with her keen sense of observation, thought my shrug and noncommittal agreement to go to the cinema with her was a polite rejection of romantic overtures. Really, it was just me assuming there was nothing romantic in said overtures, but she was shy and I was dense and eventually - ah, but that wouldn't come until later. 

The film wound up being a bit of a let-down. I correctly assumed the director was a man and every scene felt as though it had been smeared by a film of the male gaze; it was like I was watching the two main characters interact through a greasy curtain. Holmes and I wound up cringing and laughing quite a bit, to the dismay of the three other people in the cinema who turned around to glare and shush us; we wound up leaving before it was over. 

The night air was cool as we waited for a bus to Baker St. Holmes fiddled around with her Apple watch while we waited, but seized my arm with a sudden excitement. "Watson, look!"

**New Message from Hosmer Angel: 'Hello, beautiful. How is a gorgeous thing like you possibly single?'**


	2. Hooked

Despite the lateness of the hour, neither Holmes and I went to bed. We didn't even pause to change into pajamas, we made a beeline for the sofa, opened up the laptop and sat side by side to reply to Hosmer Angel's message. 

"Hang on," I said, hand hovering over the keys to stop Holmes replying immediately. "Do you want to wait? Play coy a bit? If you come on too strong it might make him realise something's not right."

Immediately, Holmes shook her head in the negative.

"If I was actually trying to date him, maybe," she said. "But Hosmer Angel - sorry, Jim Windibank - is an opportunist of the lowest sort. I don't think he'd find it amiss if 'Sarah Hughes' came on too strong. In fact, it might encourage him."

 **No reason,** she typed, tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth in an expression of utmost concentration. **Just haven't met the right person yet.**

She was about to hit 'enter' when I stopped her again. Possibly taking liberties (I didn't know Mary Sutherland or the friend-of-a-friend who referred her to Holmes, after all), but I couldn't help feeling like I was part of it too. Holmes had asked me to come down to the cafe, made me privy to all the dirty little secrets behind the false face. It was possible she was just looking for an audience, but I had the sense that I was just as much an actor in this little drama as she was. My instincts seemed correct for Holmes left off typing and looked at me with interest, waiting for me to speak.

"Add a smilie face," I advised. 

"A winking smilie face?" she asked before complying.

"Just a smilie face."

She did so, after another back and forth, (Holmes: "Should I add a hyphen for a nose or leave it off?" Me: "Leave it off, no nose smilie face implies you're naive.")

It was the right call. A reply came through two minutes later. **Lucky for me, what do you look for in a partner, may I ask?**

 **I enjoy the attentions of a man who can mix a strong cocktail** , Holmes started to type and only stopped when I laughed. "What? I'm trying to encourage him!"

"Right, but that's...awfully specific," I pointed out. "And not really...natural, is it? I'm not sure 'Sarah Hughes' would use a phrase like 'enjoy the attentions of,' I'm envisioning her as a bit of an airhead."

Holmes dutifully deleted what she'd been typing. "You've been crafting a backstory for my alter-ego?"

Admittedly, I had. Sarah Hughes, I decided, was one of those characters who'd gone through her formative years a bit plain, turned out well, but was too beaten down by the world to realise that she was a looker. Hence the escapism into games like _The Cracksman's Syndicate_. Nevertheless, she was looking for romance and was apparently desperate enough to throw herself at the first bloke who looked her way. Also she worked in a bank, had a terrier named Boots, and was allergic to strawberries.

"I might've done, yeah," I replied.

Wordlessly, Holmes handed the laptop to me and gestured that I should carry on in her stead.

On the surface of it, I was potentially the least-qualified person in the world to try and entice a man into going on a date. I literally had no practical experience, nor was I looking to develop any. Heterosexuality was all well and good for the sort of people who went in for that kind of thing, but it wasn't really my area. Also, gender presentation and personal self-concept were set against me with regards to getting into the head of Holmes's _Love Island_ castaway creation.

But just because I didn't have experience didn't mean I was bereft of an imagination. I did live in a world where, despite my best efforts, I'd been bearing witness to heteronormative tropes everywhere I turned for nigh on thirty years. One picked things up through osmosis and it seemed a fitting revenge to use this unsought knowledge to help out a woman who'd been mistreated so badly by someone playacting at romance to humiliate her. I'd never met Mary Sutherland, but I felt badly for her and thought Jim Windibank deserved to have the misery he'd doled out return to bite him in the arse. 

**Sense of humour** , I typed back, because wasn't that what everyone said? **I've got a dull job, I like to have fun when I go out. Have a few laughs. What about yourself?**

That simple question prompted a three-paragraph response about the joys and miseries of working as the front-desk manager at a mid-sized hotel in a city as busy as London. Tellingly, he did not mention a wife, step-daughter, or patterns of emotional abuse as a way to unwind after a stressful day. There was a bit more back-and-forth, I contributed a few words here and there as well as some encouraging acronyms and appropriate emojis, but 'Hosmer' was the kind of person who preferred to hold court than engage in dialogue, so my part was easy.

Holmes was riveted to the entire exchange, so close was she pressed behind me that at times I could feel her breath on my neck and by my ear. She was hovering inches away, nearly resting her chin on my shoulder. I rather wished she would; when I was discharged from hospital I was thoroughly sick of being poked and and prodded and always left my rehab sessions exhausted and hyper-sensitive to the proximity of others. Now, with time and distance, I was feeling a little touch-starved. But Holmes seemed to prefer to hover and I didn't say anything about it. 

"Now might be a good time to bring up the issue of appearance," Holmes suggested. "I do want to confront him face to face, but he needs to be reassured about the fact that the picture he's using for his profile doesn't much resemble him, but that you would take such a thing in stride."

At that point I turned my attention to wrapping up the conversation; 'Sarah Hughes' might've been excited about the prospect of a date, but J. Watson wanted her bed. 

**Poor you** , I falsely sympathised to his latest complained about how very hard done-by he was. **That must be difficult. It sounds like you could use a night out.**

He confirmed that he did and asked a rare question of Sarah: what she liked to do of an evening?

 **Drinks are always nice** , I wrote. **Full disclosure: I look a bit different to my profile picture. I've had a haircut and lost a bit of weight.**

 **Me as well!** Hosmer replied at once. **Lost a bit of weight (and the beard!). I generally wear contacts.**

We extolled the virtues of vigorous walks and healthy eating for a while, but I could sense Holmes getting impatient beside me.

"Tell him to meet you at the The Telegraph, it's a gastro-pub on Leadenhall Street, with private rooms," she said at last. "Thursday night. I have one or two little lines of inquiry I want to look into before meeting him, but that should only take me a few days. Unless Thursday isn't any good for you, of course."

"Me?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. "You want _me_ to come along with you?"

"Oh, most definitely," Holmes nodded vigourously. "I'll need you to convincingly reply to any texts he might send on the day."

I suspected she could manage that well enough on her own, but as I was well in it now, I wanted to see how the thing would turn out. We ended the conversation, then, and Holmes shut down the browser window, though she kept the laptop open and made for the kitchen to put the kettle on, rather than retreat to her room for a sleep. 

"You're staying up?" I asked, surprised.

"Yes," Holmes nodded, filling the kettle with water and setting it to heat. "As I said, I have a few lines of inquiry to see to. And I don't have a set schedule, I'm well invigourated and now seems as good a time as any to proceed. I would like to talk to Mary, but I assume she's asleep at this hour."

"Probably," I agreed. I hesitated, wanted to ask her a few questions, but not sure if I could without coming across as rude.

"Go ahead," she prompted. 

"Go ahead, what?"

"Ask me...whatever it is you want to ask me," she replied. "You look done in, but you're not going to bed. I assume you've got something you want to say to me - oh, thank you, by the way. For your creativity and assistance this evening."

Holmes brought a hand up to rub the back of her neck awkwardly. It was the first gesture she'd made that struck me as being off-kilter; usually she possessed extraordinary grace. Must have been due from sitting so long; I knew my back was protesting, and there was a dull ache radiating from my bad shoulder to my fingertips. 

"It's only I was wondering...is this a favour? Or are you..."

"Being paid?" she filled in. I nodded, embarrassed, but she took it in stride. "I am, in fact, being compensated, but not by Mary. As I said, this case was a referral and I am being paid by the...referee?"

The uncertainty in her voice over the turn of phrase was endearing and I chuckled. "Sorry to pry, I was just wondering."

"It's perfectly natural that you would," Holmes said understandingly. "I...had a more conventional occupation once upon a time. But I closed that avenue rather recklessly. And stupidly."

I'd unknowingly opened a wound. Her voice was bitter and it seemed she was having difficulty looking me in the face. Of course I wondered what had happened - what her former employment was and how it had come to an end. Who wouldn't be curious after such a statement?

But she hadn't asked how it was for me after the hospital was bombed, though I'd noticed her, sometimes, examining me closely if I made a noise of discomfort or if she caught me doing PT in the sitting room. I was sure she wanted to know some details. But she hadn't pressed me and I wouldn't press her. 

"I've had an abrupt career change myself," I reminded her. And, feeling I ought to say something to buck her up, but having no idea what to say, added haltingly, "Could be...could be it's all for the best."

It wasn't the right thing to say. She swallowed hard, fists clenching and unclenching reflexively and when she spoke it was to the floor. "I suppose it was _abrupt_ , at that. But less catastrophic than your own experiences; mine caused harm to no one but myself. Good night, Watson."

Her kettle was ready and she busied herself making the tea. The line of her shoulders was tight and she was breathing rather hard out her nose. The compassion which had been awakened in me in light of our last adventure fairly burst forth, but I quelled the impulse to try and draw her out or comfort her; it hadn't gone well for me so far.

"'Night, Holmes," I said instead and made my way up to my room. I heard her pacing about, occasionally talking to herself through the ceiling. It was a long while before I fell asleep, but I must have done. Morning dawned through the windows and I got up, went through my daily PT regimen in my bedroom, then showered and went downstairs. Holmes's bedroom door was ajar, but there was no noise within and without looking I knew I was alone in the flat. I wondered if she'd slept at all. 

Before I left for the surgery, I sent her a text: **How're the inquiries coming?**

She did not seem to bear me any ill-will, for she responded at once: **Tedious, but not overly complicated. Hosmer Angel has contact Sarah Hughes again. Would you reply to him when you have a minute?**

Holmes sent me the username and password for the Sarah Hughes account and added, **I would be remiss if I did not compensate you for your considerable help - let me take you to dinner at the conclusion. My treat.**

Without thinking, I replied, **It's a date.**

Holmes was quick to write back: **:-)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses as to who hired Holmes to deal with the Mary Sutherland situation? (Hint: Mary's got friends in high places.)


	3. Reeled In

Holmes wanted me there for the big reveal - the denouement, as I thought of it. As though we were in the last few chapters of a cozy mystery novel, the sort that were well-stocked in the donation bins at the hospital where I'd done my rehab. Granted, 'catfishing the catfisher' hadn't featured in the plots of the dozens of paperbacks I'd started and never finished. 

When I met her at the restaurant, I was surprised to see her done up in as close an approximation of her Sarah Hughes persona as she could manage with make-up. Though, on second thought, it made perfect sense; if 'Hosmer Angel' thought he was meeting Sarah Hughes and instead found not just one, but two strange women in her place, he might bolt as soon as he arrived. 

"Wish you'd told me you were getting all done up," I groused, feeling rather grubby in my paisley button-down and navy blue trousers that I wore to appear semi-professional at the surgery. "I would've worn a suit."

"Oh." It was difficult to read Holmes's facial expression under the foundation and contouring, but it seemed she was taken aback. She swallowed and her lips twitched. "I'll keep that in mind for next time."

"Next time?" I laughed, but Holmes took hold of my arm and led me into the restaurant.

It was quite the place - lots of blue uplighting with curved booths along the walls, providing diners with a bit of privacy. The centre of the room was dominated by a large bar, stocked with liquors of alarmingly neon colours (in addition to a dozen taps featuring micro-brews). The staff were dressed in historically-inspired clothing which was vaguely reminiscent of the 1920s. The bartenders wore arm garters, anyway.

The table at which we sat was located in the darkest part of the restaurant, farthest from the hustle and bustle of the bar. 

"Drink?" Holmes asked. It was then that I realised she was thrumming with energy, fingers tap-tapping upon the tabletop. Nervous. In a way she hadn't been before we'd burst out of the loo in the abandoned flat. "I don't usually...but it would fit the scene, wouldn't it? Don't you think? Sarah Hughes is your creation, what do you think she'd drink?"

"Something fruity," I said, reaching out to pat her hands before she wore her fingertips down to nubs. To my great surprised she squeezed my hand back and smiled. "I'll be back."

There was a bit of a queue, so that by the time I returned with a pint for me (Guinness, nothing too wild or expensive) and one of the in-house, themed cocktails (with an ice cube that turned colours, something I thought Holmes might think was ironically charming), Hosmer Angel - or, rather, Jim Windibank was sitting opposite her. He had his weight on his left side, leaning as though he wanted to exit the booth. On impulse, I sat beside him, blocking the way. I pushed Holmes's drink toward her, a bit of violently purple liquid spilling onto the tabletop. 

Jim looked me over warily with sharp grey eyes. In person, he didn't appear quite as young as his pictures on social media (both original and unphotoshopped versions) would have it. Dark circles indicated that he had not been sleeping well and there were lines in his forehead that implied prolonged stress. All of this heightened by the suspicious frown on his face. His gaze flickered back to Holmes and he asked, "Who is this? Your bodyguard?"

"This is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson," she said, smoothly in her usual deep, clipped voice. Not the sort of voice Sarah Hughes would have. "Of course, I'm not Sarah Hughes. But then you aren't Hosmer Angel. You spend quite a lot of time pretending to be other people, don't you, Mr Windibank?"

Jim Windiback started to rise, but I shifted slightly and blocked him; he was slight, not much above average height and had a sallow, pale complexion, the consequence of a desk job and not much physical activity to counter his sedentary lifestyle. Even taking my shoulder and knee into account, I didn't like his chances against me. He didn't either and slunk back in his seat, placing his palms down on the table. With a nervous huff of laughter, eyes downcast to stare at his much-gnawed fingernails, he said, "Alright. So we neither of us look like our profile pictures. That's not a crime, is it?"

Holmes let out an inelegant snort. "Isn't it? Conspiring with your wife to seduce and humiliate her daughter certainly is immoral even if - were that the extent of your actions - it might not _technically_ be illegal."

Jim's head snapped up, eyes bulging in his head. "How the _fuck_ do you know about that?"

"Despite your wife's best attempts - and _honestly_ ," Holmes broke off, a low fury bubbling in her tone, "the two of you are so despicable as to be _eminently_ well-suited - Mary Sutherland is not without friends. Your ruse, designed to utterly break what little confidence and spirit she possesses, I am happy to say, was unsuccessful."

Quick as a wink, she had her mobile in hand and snapped a quick photo of Jim Windibank, full flash, so that he was blinking stars out of his eyes as she sent a text. "There we are. Concrete proof that Hosmer Angel is, in fact, Jim Windibank."

"Well..." Jim looked from the mobile in Holmes's hands to me, body tensing as though he was about to leap across the table.

With an evenness of tone I only managed through years of practise in high-stress trauma situations, I merely said, "I wouldn't, if I were you."

"It doesn't - it was just a laugh," Jim spat hatefully. "It's hardly as though anyone else has shown her interest, eh? Fat and spotty and - in a certain light, I did her a favour."

"A _favour_?" Holmes repeated incredulously. "For the psychological pain inflicted alone...I don't care what the law says about that, you should be horsewhipped. But no, I suppose concealing one's identity and engaging in a false relationship with an unwitting victim is, as you say, not illegal. But credit card fraud most definitely is."

For a second, Jim Windibank appeared to be choking. He recovered himself enough to splutter about, demanding an explanation. One which Holmes was all too happy to provide.

Not long after Mary Sutherland attended the convention at Jim Windibank's hotel, mysterious charges began appearing on her credit card, the cart upon which she had charged her stay. Working in finance, she was quickly able to detect and shut down the fraudulent charges, cancel the card, etc. She assumed, at first, that it was more bad luck, the universe's way of punishing her for daring to believe herself capable of being in a loving relationship. Holmes did not believe in the universe meting out punishments - especially to otherwise nice enough young women whose only crime was low self-esteem brought about by chronic emotional abuse by a parent. So she looked into it and after a bit of digging managed to discover that the IP address from which the fraudulent charges had been made was he same as Jim Windibank's personal work computer. She had copies of all the relevant paperwork with him, if Mr Windibank desired to look it over.

"Sloppy and stupid," Holmes concluded. "Without even the common sense to cover your tracks with a VPN as you embarked into a world of petty criminality."

Jim was visibly sweating now and looking me over with an alarm that bordered on fear; he thought I was an officer of the law, despite Holmes referring to me as 'Dr Watson.' Well, I wasn't about to disabuse him of the notion and fixed him with an entirely genuine and disapproving glare. He sank down in his seat and started staring at his hands again. 

"It wasn't that much money," he muttered. "S'not like I'll do any serious gaol time."

"No, you'll likely be fined," Holmes agreed. "But I cannot imagine you will retain your position at your hotel. It isn't a desirable thing, to keep on a manager who steals the credit cards of the hotel's clients. And however inane and beneath your dignity you found your position to be, unemployment can hardly be more appealing. And without an income, I do not believe the current Mrs Windibank will find you so very appealing as she once did.

"Of course, Mary will know all," she added, her tone turning sympathetic for the first time in the entire interaction. "I cannot say whether it will be more of a comfort to her to know that those who ought to have been closest to her plotted to humiliate and rob her or to think that she was somehow responsible in sudden dissolution of a relationship into which she had invested time and emotion. Either way, better for her, in the long run, to know the truth. In the meantime, you might wish to consult a lawyer, Mr Windibank. For all the good it will do you."

I took that as my cue to rise; Holmes did so as well. Jim Windibank sat frozen in the booth, seemingly in shock. Slowly, he raised his eyes to look Holmes in the face. "Who are you? How...how did you know about it? Any of it?"

"It's as I said," Holmes replied. "Mary Sutherland is not without friends; quite powerful friends in this circumstance. If either you or your wife took the time to get to know her, you might have realised she was not the easy target you imagined her to be. You may return home if you wish; you'll not find Mary there. She knows enough to stay away from that house. I think now she might have the courage to leave her mother's home forever and so much the better for her. Good-night, Mr Windibank. I wish you absolutely no luck in the weeks ahead and only hope that you get exactly what you deserve in future and no better."

She was so businesslike and matter-of-fact in her demeanour that I half expected her to extend her hand for Jim Windibank to shake. Of course she didn't and, after a beat, Windibank rose on shaky legs and walked with the stumbling gait of a man half-drunk toward the door. Then he started running; we could see him breaking out into a dash down the street through the restaurant's tinted windows.

Once he was out out sight, Holmes let out and enormous sigh and sank down into the booth, knocking back half the contents of the drink I'd gotten her in an enormous swallow. "Ugh! That's vile, it tastes like a melted lollipop."

"Sarah Hughes would've liked it, I think," I said, sitting a bit heavily myself and taking a swig of my drink. 

Holmes flashed me a smile; the drink had stained her teeth purple. "Well, luckily, I can have done with Sarah Hughes - she served her purpose well enough. A moment, Watson! Then we'll sit down to that supper I promised you."

It was closer to ten minutes, but Holmes emerged from the loo de-wigged with her face scrubbed free of make-up. She must have been wearing some extreme foundation garments for though the clinging dress was still all the clothing she wore, it lay nearly flat against her chest and wrinkled at her slender hips where before it had been stretched taut against curves. Sitting back down she finished the purple concoction, though she pulled a face after. 

"Still awful," she concluded, then nodded at my beer. "I'll get the next round - and supper! All paid out of my pocket and I must insist. I told you I was being compensated for this case and I confess I've a mind to give you half the sum. It was your cleverness at character that convinced Jim Windibank to make our acquaintance at all."

"You can pay for supper," I informed her. "But I'm not taking half your salary. To be frank...I'm not sure that was necessary. You might've had him brought up for fraud without ever meeting him, mightn't you? It seemed you had the matter dealt with before I started inventing a character for you."

"I nearly did," she admitted, pausing in her reflections when a waitress in a beaded shift dress came to take our order. Once Holmes was settled in with her preferred cocktail (gin and tonic) and I had a second pint she continued, "But...I admit, selfishly...I wanted him to _panic_. I wanted to embarrass him. I wanted him to feel...a tenth as small and out of control as he made Mary Sutherland feel. Is that...you think that's awful, don't you?"

"No," I shook my head truthfully. "I don't think that's awful. I think that's a very...natural thing to want. You've shown you give more of a toss about poor Mary than her own mother. Is it particularly noble? No, not really, but Jim Windibank was a prick. I don't know that he deserves your best and worthiest consideration."

Holmes grinned that toothy, too-wide grin that I was starting to think of as her trademark. Raising her glass she said, 'Cheers. As you're the noblest person I've met in...an age, Watson, I'll take that as a ringing endorsement of my application of moral compass in this case."

With an ironic tap of the rim of my glass to hers I rolled my eyes. "I'm not so good as that."

"No, you _are_ , Watson," she said, voice suddenly urgent and emphatic. " _You_ are."

I am not an easy blusher, but I was grateful for the moody lighting in the place since it did a fine job of hiding any excess colour in my ears and cheeks. Fortunately our food came in short order and we started stuffing our gobs rather than comparing our relative goodness. 

And yet, even as our conversation veered away from moral discussions and Mary Sutherland, I found myself studying Holmes. Wondering about her. Why she should be so thoroughly convinced of my goodness and so skeptical of her own. Though our more intimate acquaintance had been of short duration, in that time she had helped two young women who were being taken advantage of, and one merely out of interest and concern, rather than a financial gain. She could be prickly and excitable, a bit odd, certainly, but everyone had their quirks. She was also brilliant and artistic, if the magic she was able to work on her own countenance was any indication.

I wanted to know her better. Despite my prior conviction that closing myself off from the world would keep me safe from heartbreak and pain both physical and emotional, I couldn't deny that I was utterly fascinated by her. Her mind. And her secrets. There was some deep pain within her, very close to the surface. I wanted to discover its source. Soothe it. Like any good doctor, I suppose, but even I was not so self-delusional that I couldn't see that my interest was more than clinical. I found myself studying her. Her melancholy eyes, the timbre of her deep voice, the length and delicacy of her long fingers, always in motion, especially when she was agitated. 

Had I known then what I was shortly to discover in my efforts to unveil the true nature of Sherlock Holmes, I might have cut and run. No longer the professional, implacable doctor with a soldier's nerves, I might have given up the flat, the acquaintance, the mysteries. Two broken souls rarely found that their jagged edges aligned smoothly. Too great a risk for the unlikely reward. 

Had I known then. But I didn't. I just knew that I wanted more of those grins that bordered on manic. Wanted to see the light come into her pale eyes when she was rambling off about something clever. And so, the next time I came home to find Holmes hunched over the laptop, furiously typing away and she called, "Watson! Can you come here? I want your eyes and your opinion at once!"

I only said, "Of course. Anything you want."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUSTICE FOR MARY SUTHERLAND. I couldn't incorporate her into this chapter, sadly, because I couldn't quite make it flow smoothly, but we'll see her eventually! I'm determined.

**Author's Note:**

> Full text of the Philip Larkin poem 'This Be the Verse' that Watson partially quotes: "They fuck you up your mum and dad / they may not mean to, but they do. / They fill you with the faults they had / And add some extra, just for you. / But they were fucked up in their turn / by fools in old-style hats and coats, / Who half the time were soppy-stern / And half at one another's throats. / Man hands on misery to man. / It deepens like a coastal shelf. / Get out as early as you can. / And don't have any kids yourself." (Here, as is implied in canon, neither Holmes nor Watson had happy childhoods.)
> 
> Also, just because this is a world without ACD's Holmes stories, I've decided that AJ Raffles is the cultural touchstone that took his place ;-)


End file.
